Everlasting
by oh-cripe-my-fish
Summary: As the last century transitions into the next and their relationship transitions into strange uncharted territory, England witnesses a vulnerable side of France he's never seen before. Entangled with existential dread and loneliness himself, he can't help but empathise. Pre-fruk. Pre-Entente.


**A/Ns:** _Here's a fair warning that this isn't cheery. The train's stopping at angst central. I'm keeping the political situation kinda vague because I'm dumb and will likely mess things up. The Entente Cordiale happened in 1904, this is pre-Entente._

* * *

**1902**

"Sometimes," Francis hiccups, nose running, eyes wet.

Clouded emerald eyes hone in on the other's moist and rosy cheeks. Arthur is sitting in one of the two matching armchairs of Francis' warmly decorated Parisian living room, as Francis sagged exhaustedly into it's parallel and matching counterpart opposite the roaring fire, with the two of them forgetting all about their longstanding grudges against one another until the light of tomorrow. France is already through a full bottle and a half of an astonishingly dark red wine, while England tries poorly to monitor his whiskey intake, too wary around his nemesis to let his guard down. Yet they sit there and drink like friends. It's odd, the English nation acknowledges. But what isn't odd about their lives? Everything is odd about their existence.

"Sometimes," Francis tries one more time, pausing to sip his wine

Arthur subtly leans across the armrest, tilting closer. "Sometimes?"

"I think I can't do it."

"Do what, Frog?" Arthur asks, words only slightly slurred. He feels relatively sober, being on his fourth generously large glass of whiskey. Or was it his fifth? Maybe it was his sixth? Honestly, he had tried his best to monitor his intake, but truthfully Arthur had stopped counting after accepting the modest glass of Merlot Francis had offered him when he had complained about the burning sharpness of his whiskey for the millionth time.

Arthur's not sure how much he's drank and he doesn't quite know why or when Francis started crying, but he is. With the whiskey in him, spending time with his watery eyed, weeping neighbour doesn't seem just as strange. The circumstances of his visit to France was a political one and, unsurprisingly, quite strange, their politicians striving to ally themselves with one another to draw each of their countries out of isolation. England's had been splendid for a time, offset when he realised tensions in Europe had been rising and he had no solid allies in his immediate geographical location. France's was forced upon him, Germany tactically backing him into a corner, caught between old antagonistic England - the rock that was stony, begrudging, who surely would never consider making amends after all these years - and a hard place.

Arthur can feel it in his bones, the inevitable pull of his people towards France, and Francis can feel it stirring in his soul, the citizens of France in the midst of making the unthinkable happen, many considering reacquainting themselves with the English across the Dover Strait. It's small and not exactly a drastic feeling, but they were lonesome and needy and worried and their antagonistic countries that were so intent of remaining apart, that intent is beginning to splinter and break under the stress, begin to pull, turn around, attract, starting with their governments and England's Francophile sovereign.

Francis swallows, not going unheard over the soft crackling of the wood in the fireplace. "Live." he answers.

That significantly sobers Arthur up in a flash. "I'm not… quite sure… what are you trying to imply..." he says, dreading the elaboration. Turning his head to look at what is the closest thing to a lifelong companion he'll ever have, he was hoping and praying France doesn't mean what England thinks he means.

"Live this life, as a nation..." Elaborates Francis, voice raw. "Everything is so unfulfilling... I win a war, I lose a war, the few colonies remain hate me, the humans my heart beats for eventually die, and the lovers my soul should cherish to my dying day, which will never come soon enough, they are unforgettable in the moment, yet they become faint fogging memories despite my heartfelt promises to both them and I that _I won't forget_. But it's getting harder to remember," Francis' voice trembles with the words. "And more conflict looms on the horizon, and it will not matter if I am on the winning side or the losing side- because no one wins in wars. I'm not needed, and nothing in my life means anything anymore-"

"That's not true." Arthur argues, turning in his chair to stare at Francis in the warm light of the fire. With his weary bearded face and his damp cheeks, he looks distraught in the flickering glow of the flame. "Y-you... have friends – us personifications - who need you, you have a place among us, there's great artistic achievements for you to continue, change to enact, memories to retain so future generations can learn from previous mistakes, wisdom to bestow, an entire country – a people - to represent..." _And what would I do without you? _He thinks selfishly, the guilt settling thick with the thought_. You've been my motivation for centuries, whether it was for the better or for the worse._ "What do you consider to give your life meaning?" Arthur then asks, oddly gentle. He has a feeling Francis is drunk enough to bare all, and not even Arthur is cruel enough to attack him when he's properly aching, inside rather than out.

"Love..." Francis murmurs, gazing absently into the gentle ripples of his dark red wine. "Family."

Arthur smiles to himself, studying his company. "I thought you'd say that." He admits, watching Francis wipe his eyes and sigh.

"It would be nice, to be a mortal human."

"I see..."

"I... it will sound silly, saying this... but... I dream of a woman..." Francis sloppily wipes his nose on the back of his hand, prompting Arthur to dig through his pockets for a handkerchief. "I don't know her name, but she's always a brunette." Arthur is silent, and when Francis hesitates at getting no response, Arthur then encourages him to continue with a sympathetic hum as he passes across the handkerchief, and Francis' voice cracks a little bit when he eventually continues. "She never really has a distinct face, it is always changing with the dream, but she's beautiful in every shape and form she comes in..." Francis whispers, slowly swirling his wine with sad eyes. Arthur nods slowly, even when Francis doesn't look at him, listening. "Sometimes I bring her breakfast... or sometimes, we're splashing around in the sea, smiling and laughing, happy... picnicking in the park... Dancing to violins..." Francis' laugh is breathy, solemn, he's reluctant to understand why he's opening up and telling Arthur all of this. "We will roll around in the satin bed sheets, sometimes. I've sprinkled them with white and pink rose petals; she tells me I'm silly for it. And I kissed her at the top of the Eiffel tower, once. It was cliche..."

There was a lump Arthur's own throat. "Cliche, eh…? I won't disagree" Arthur gently jests. Francis dares make eye contact with him and he smiles back, perhaps Francis was losing it to consider the smile a kind one.

"When I awaken," Francis continues, looking away. "The saliva on my pillow is dry and cold, and I lie for hours with stupid tears in my eyes and..."

Francis falls quiet, the silence returns. The crackling of the fire and the loud ticking clock on the wall doesn't soften the reflective and heavy atmosphere the conversation had created.

"Over the years, I've always tried to justify calling you a lecherous womaniser..." Arthur intercepts quietly after a moment and Francis' burdened gaze immediately shifts back him again. The Frenchman looks wounded by his words and Arthur holds his hands up with a rueful smile. "But you're making that harder, coming out with things like this... bloody sentimental, hopeless romantic. And that's not such a bad thing…"

Francis smiles the tiniest smile and looks away, getting lost in the colours of the fire. Arthur watches the light dance on the drying tears on his cheeks.

"And I suppose there's the pitter patter of tiny feet in these dreams." Arthur says softly.

Francis sips the lasts few drops from his wine glass and stretches down to pick up the open bottle by his feet, pouring himself another glass with struggling, fumbling hands, it's a miracle that he doesn't spill any. Arthur considers intervening and sending him off to bed.

"… Sometimes. Maybe three, four pairs. I wake up in the morning expecting my surroundings to be the same, hear the faint sound of a family in the distance, to find the brown-haired woman next to me..."

"And she isn't." Arthur finishes the sentence for him when Francis cannot.

"And I'm alone." Francis concludes.

Arthur's hand twitches with an extraordinary want to reach across to take Francis', which rests upon the armrest of his own chair parallel to Arthur's. Arthur genuinely considers squeezing Francis' in comfort, to help with fending off the loneliness just for a moment, soften the plight of immortality.

The fire burns hot, as does the cavity in Arthur's chest.

Their kind of lives can hurt - so, so much.


End file.
